Chapter 28
Asher
Past
Music sticks to my skin like grease, thick and choking beneath the low-slung lights that pulse with the beat.
Behind their masks, the eyes don't lie. They watch me. Painted lips hiding foul words behind smiles, women throwing soft threats wide in the flushed heat of too much whiskey and cigarette smoke.
Nine years old, but no one here gives a fuck about something like age. I'd always looked older than I was. Heavy is the soul that wears the Devil’s suit, or whatever the fuck it was that my mother always went on about.
Salt air whips sharp in my nose as I grip the yacht's lower deck rail.
Around me, nicotine stench curls, mixing with spilled liquor's sour tang.
Atlas is nowhere to be seen—again. Whenever things get close to real, the bastard disappears.
I should hunt him down and slap sense into his head, but deep down, I don't really want him to see the world the same way I do.
To have the same responsibilities that I do.
He's younger by a few minutes, but sometimes it feels like years. Especially since whenever I need the bastard, he disappears like smoke. One day, that'll come in handy, but for right now, it's annoying.
The bass thumps harder, shaking the floorboards beneath my boots. Dancers stumble, weaving in blurred shadows that are wrapped in glitter and sweat.
I hate this place, but I hate the father who bred us to live in it more. He expects me to be the good son. The soldier. The one who carries the weight his frail ass shoulders can’t carry anymore.
“You’re always running, Atlas,” I mutter, annoyance thick. “Can’t stay in one damn place.”
Masks float through the night, in some creepy hellish kind of way. Fucking sloppy drunk like usual, everyone is.
My patience stretches thinner before Atlas staggers through the crowd like some drunk fool lost in a nightmare. Wobbling like a drunkard's compass, a flask clutched in his fist.
“Put that down,” I growl, shoving through the sweaty bodies until I’m face-to-face with him. His eyes glint with madness, wide and defiant.
“It's empty,” he slurs, but my hand shoots out, snatching the flask before it hits the deck. Engraved at the front is the family crest, all twisted in a vine of flowers. This is Dad's flask.
“Don’t fucking use that!” I snap, teeth grinding. “You wanna get me in trouble?”
Atlas smirks, that crooked thing that sets every nerve on edge.
I shove past him, my eyes flicking to the women whose gazes linger too long. Even behind their masks, they don’t hide their hunger for me. Or Atlas.
“Sloths,” I mutter, biting off the word.
Narrow stairs disappear beneath my feet as I climb, hands trembling with the urge to explode, to be anywhere but this endless spinning hell of perversion and smoke.
I shove through the door at the landing.
Motion rocks the yacht, a single light swaying overhead.
Along the walls, shadows melt and stretch, twisting a dark ballet beneath the flickering bulb.
Chains hang from the ceiling, and my stomach rolls with nausea.
Wrapped in a flowing black robe, a girl dangles there—blood painting a gruesome mask across her face and hair. She's pale, and as still as a corpse.
Her head lolls between her shoulders like a broken doll. Fragile, hurt. It cuts through my chest like a machete.
I step closer. Chains clink with her movement, a soft, accusing sound. Brine and metal hang thick in the air.
Then she snaps awake.
“Who's there?” Brittle and raw, her voice cuts through the dark.
Everything locks in place—muscles, breath, thought. My heartbeat spikes. Blood pounds in my ears as the room tilts around me.
“Fuck,” I exhale, the word cracking apart on my tongue.
Three strides and I'm on her.
My fingers fumble with the knots—these bastards knew what they were doing, double sailor's knots, pulled wet so they'd tighten when they dried. My knuckles scrape raw against the rope, trying to work it loose.
“Stop.” The chains rattle as she jerks away, metal singing against metal. “Just… stop.”
I keep working. The knots aren't giving.
“Get out.”
If I can just get this one… “I can get you—”
“There's no getting out for me.” Laughter spills from her lips, a sound that makes my skin crawl. Blood bubbles at the corner of her mouth. “Who the fuck are you? What, you my new child play?”
Something warm slicks the rope. My hands are red when I look down. “I'm not exactly free, either…”
Tilting her head, she tests the chains' limits—not much give—and something shifts in her eyes. Disappointment? I can't tell. Can't tell if she's used to it. Or this.
“Well then.” Another laugh, wet and broken. “Guess you're just worse at hiding it.”
Behind me, the door crashes open, slamming against the wall with a force that rattles the chains.
My heart jackhammers in my chest as I spin around. Father fills the frame, his mask jutting out and spikes curling like thorns from the edges, glinting under the swaying light.
“Asher.” His voice cuts low. He's used to this. Being the one calling he shots. “Downstairs. Now.”
I step back from the girl, rope still slick in my fists.
Her gaze flicks between us, wide but sharpening.
I need to help her. Somehow. “She's—”
“Downstairs.” He grabs my shoulder, fingers digging into muscle. “You wandered too far.”
I twist free, or try to. His grip holds. “What's she doing here? Chained up like—”
“Punishment and bait.” He yanks me toward the door, his breath hot against my ear, reeking of bourbon and metal. The spikes on his mask brush my cheek, cold pricks that draw a thin line of blood.
“Why?” My answer bursts out in defiance, because fuck that.
I plant my feet, but he shoves harder.
The girl laughs again, this time it's low. Dark.
Chains jangle as she strains forward, and Father's head snaps toward her.
For a beat, the room goes still.
“She is bait,” he growls, right before he slams the door shut behind us. The wood bites my heel as he bundles me into the dim corridor, his hand a vise on my arm. The lock clicks with finality, echoing down the hall.
I stumble after him, rubbing my wrist where his fingers left bruises.
Bait. The word sticks in my throat. She couldn't have been more than fourteen, her face smeared with blood but her eyes—too clear, too young for whatever hell they dragged her into.
Father expects obedience. Always has. He doesn't bend for questions, especially not from his sons. Atlas doesn't give a fuck about the rules, and I've always let the rules slide. I never gave a fuck for them. Knew that my future was caved out for me whether I drank or sipped it.
But now, seeing her… is that what my future is going to be?
We hit the stairs, the party's roar swelling below. Laughter cracks through the bass, bodies grinding in the haze.
Father releases me at the top, his masked face turning away without a word. He melts back into the shadows, gone as quick as he came.
I descend alone, boots heavy on the steps. Every punishment he's doled out flashes in my head. It stings, sure. Breaks you down until you rebuild harder. But her…
I'd take it all. Every lash, every chain. Let them carve me open if it keeps that spark in her eyes from snuffing out.
The thought coils tight in my gut, defiant and stupid. Down here, masks whirl closer, eyes locking on me again. One woman—red lips, feathers curling from her brow—reaches out, her nails grazing my arm.
But then a scream cuts through the music from above. Hers.
And the party's pulse stutters, just for a second, before the beat swallows it whole and the laughter of those attending chokes her screams out.
This isn't new.
The parties, the drunk, perverted mask bearers. It never bothered me before, because Father always said this was what we did. What we followed. That we all had a job to do and this was ours.
But for the first time ever, I've realized something. I don't want it. Fuck that.
Maybe I'll step up after all. Maybe I'll take everything a little more serious than I have been. But not for my father.
For her.